I watched the two of them as they walked away, hands tucked around each other. Her hair flowed lightly in the winter wind; his coat was black and drawn tightly against his skin. The presents they just bought were wrapped in a small, white bag. I wondered who would receive them, knowing it wasn’t me.

Of course it wasn’t me; why would it be? They didn’t know me, and I didn’t know them. But I yearned to feel what they felt, desired to be able to give the way they seemed to give, both in love and gifts.

I stood from the mall’s bench, wondering if I should follow them, ask them if they had some money. It was the season of giving, after all.

“Scumbag!” A voice yelled from behind me. “Get away from here! This is a nice, family place!”

I turned to see a security guard shooing me away, like a piece of vermin.

_This is a nice, family place . . . _

__

__

I was only 18, fresh on the streets after being kicked out by my parents for being who I am. Now, I wasn’t even welcomed at a family place.

As I walked away I cried, harder than I had cried in years. I didn’t stop until I curled up into a ball at the foot of a distant tree and drifted into sleep, thinking of the couple with the gifts and their love.